Death of Imagined Possibilities

Death continues to remain the element of my fantasy. Although it isn’t as dominant as it used to be when I was a kid. The last page of my copy of Midnight’s Children has my understanding of death scribbled – a thought that perhaps occurred to me while reading the book. I am not the one who deals with death with poise. During my teenage I had learnt that there is absolutely no point talking about how someone’s death affects me. The response from people was – it’s a part of life, you should know better, you have gone through so much. It was terrible to hear these words. Does any amount of experience help us be okay with death?

A month ago when a relative died, I was amazed that I didn’t react to it. I had not known her closely, and the little that I knew wasn’t enough to make me grieve. I went about my day, checking up on my mother who stayed up the whole night. I was far from feeling any sense of loss. It put me in a dilemma – have I really gotten used to death? As I thought about it, I realised that no amount of blood-relation guarantees a connection that matters.

As blasphemous as it may sound, I say this because I find myself completely lost on some days thinking about Professor Taneja who died in April 2018. He continues to be in my Facebook friend list. Everytime I scroll through my contacts on whatsapp, I find his face smiling at me in between. The strangest thing is he did not even teach me. We spoke on Facebook, and perhaps, I have a special place in my heart for people who confess being lonely. He once talked of the loneliness that comes with his profession. Many a times I find myself imagining what might have happened had I taken up his invitation to visit him. I didn’t think there was any hurry.

September 9, 2016

This evening I heard the news of the death of the poet, novelist, academic Nabaneeta Dev Sen. I had met her about three years ago during the launch of The Liberationof Sita by Volga. It was such a delight to listen to her that evening. She had tried her very best to recall all the Odia that she knew when she learnt that I am from Odisha. She was so warm and welcoming. I talked to her for a while that evening. She signed my copy of the book in Odia. Later, she called me by name to sign again in English. I was taken aback. I do not expect people to remember my name at all. So, when they do, even for the briefest time, I am taken by surprise.

I firmly believe that death is something experienced by living. I mourn for people I don’t know while I do not grieve for family members, however distant, who have been a part of my childhood. It is not a big concern, I think. For if there’s anything I know for sure then it’s that time is no measure of feeling connected to anyone. In fact, the more we get to know a person, the more difficult it is to continue to like them. But mostly, we remember people by the memory of how we felt around/with them. I remember the warm laughter of Nabaneeta Dev Sen, her jokes on her inability to move around because of her weight. And, I think, given she called me by my name – that made the encounter somewhat special. (I have a history of people complaining about the difficulty in pronouncing/spelling my name, who end up shortening it for their convenience.) 

For some reason, I always had it in my head that I’ll meet her again and remind her of that evening – have a good laugh about it maybe. Sometimes such small instances make a great impact. Her death perhaps takes away the imagined possibility and hence, it hurts. It’s always the what could have been(s) that keep me up.